


In Time With Mine

by bibliolatry



Series: Let's Write Sherlock Challenges [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Love, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, challenge 1, lateentry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late entry for Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 1</p><p>After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…</p><p>Two hearts beat in time</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Time With Mine

Everything about the case screamed ‘obvious’. It should have taken no more than a day, maybe two on a stretch, to solve and return to 221B for a cup of tea with John. And therein lies the problem. Six months had come and gone since Sherlock’s ‘miraculous’ return. The talk had been had, anger flared out, apologies made and accepted; but forgiveness seemed a while in the making. 

If things had truly been okay between them, perhaps John would have joined Sherlock from the beginning rather than being dragged to the fray unwillingly. Matters where made worse when the idiot thought he could get away with holding a gun to the back of John’s head; John’s beaten, bruised and bloody head. John.

The man had been easy enough to dispatch, most where. But what he’d done to John in the time it took Sherlock to track them down was unforgivable. If John hadn’t been coherent and able to remind Sherlock that he’d be taken away from John for much longer than his previous three year absence (and he’d promised not to leave again), the man would not have been breathing when Lestrade and the rest of his team had arrived.

The fact that the paramedics released John was a relatively huge relief to Sherlock, though he’d never admit to it. John had received a few stitches to a gash just above his left brow and the paramedic had reminded Sherlock seven times that John should be under close surveillance for a day or two due to a minor concussion; but otherwise, there were no serious injuries. Lestrade had called a cab and helped Sherlock maneuver John into while assuring he’d drop by later the next day for the details.

The silence in the cab as they made their way home was deafening, nothing like the comfortable and companionable silences the two men had shared before. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from casting glances at his flat mate. John kept his eyes trained on his window, but it was obvious he was watching Sherlock’s reflection through it.

When the cab pulled to a stop in front of 221, John reached for his wallet, but Sherlock beat him to it. He paid the cabbie and rushed out and around the cab to help John. John kept his mouth shut in a thin line as Sherlock guided him to the stoop, unlocked the door, guided him upstairs and unlocked the door to flat B, and helped him to the couch. His brow twitched as Sherlock unbuttoned and gently removed his coat before dropping to his knees. 

Sherlock’s fingers just brushed his laces when he finally spoke up. “Stop.”

Sherlock froze, his face moving remarkable slow up until their eyes met. John reached out and pushed gently on Sherlock’s shoulder, prompting the man to back off a bit. He toed off his shoes and wiggled his toes a bit before looking back to Sherlock.

“What, precisely, is going through that brilliant head of yours?”

Sherlock let loose a long-suffering sigh and stood only to drop himself dramatically on the other end of the couch, his arms splayed to the side and the fingers of one hand just brushing John’s jumper covered shoulder. He let his eyes drift closed and took a deep breath, doing his best to let the anger and fear dissipate before John took notice. When he felt he’d relaxed enough, he opened his eyes and nearly jumped back when he took note of how close John had moved to him.  
“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

“Nothing? Why do you ask?” John rolled his eyes and made to stand. Sherlock jumped up and gently pushed him back until his back met the couch. “What do you need? I’ll get it.”

“I was…” John paused for a moment, eyeing Sherlock warily, “just going to make some tea.”

Sherlock rushed into the kitchen, filling the kettle and switching it on before grabbing their tea cups and adding the necessary accoutrements. By the time he returned with two fresh cups of tea, John had allowed himself to nearly completely relax; though when he laid eyes on Sherlock, his brow lifted and the start of a smile tinted at the corners of his mouth. 

“I think I know…” he began and Sherlock promptly cut him off.

“Splash of milk, just as you like; though it would probably be best if we got more milk. The experation date says two days from now, but you know how it is. We never know when we’ll be available to actually purchase milk. I’ll get some tomorrow.” John cast him a soft smile, an unasked question lingering in his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. Sherlock cut him off again. “Can I get you anything else. Paracetamol? I can get your pillow and blanket for you. I need to keep and eye on you, you know. Concussion and all that. I can’t have you sleeping up in your room. You can use my room, I’ll be here, working on an experiment. I’ll check on you often enough.”

“Done yet?”

“You can use my in suite, if you like. Keep you from having to walk upstairs to the other bathroom. I’ll bring you some clothes down. I can’t guarantee that I won’t apply my sock index to your drawer, but I will do my best to refrain…”

“Sherlock,” John didn’t raise his voice, but the vehemence he put behind it had Sherlock snapping his mouth shut and staring at him in complete silence. “Are you quite finished?”

Sherlock gave a quick, barely there nod of his head. John smiled, much more affection in it that normal and reached a hand out to him. Sherlock stared at it a moment before placing his hand in John’s. John pulled him down, wrapping his arms around Sherlock the moment he was sat properly on the couch beside him. “Idiot.”

“I am no such thing,” Sherlock mumbled, wrapping his arms around John in return.

“You are,” John assured, “a complete idiot.” 

They held each other for a moment, neither moving more than their breathing demanded. When they finally pulled apart, Sherlock looked down at his lap, not sure what was happening or where to go from here.

“You know, showing affection for someone doesn’t have to go anywhere, Sherlock. I’m not gay, you’re married to your work. I love you, but I’m not in love with you. You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “Best friend?” he asked, as though he’d never heard the term.

“Sure,” John shrugged. “It may not be in a romantic way, but your heart, it beats in time with mine. There is no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock allowed a gentle smile to cross his lips, wrapping one arm around John’s shoulders and pulling him into his chest. “I’d be lost without my blogger.”


End file.
